Peaches
by MichyGeary
Summary: Castle/Beckett. Castle visits his favorite detective late at night. Lots of literature metaphor. Written for the first castle fic challenge @LJ, "Sweet." Please read/review! Good or bad feedback, I can take it. :D


She knew she was in trouble. She knew it the second he closed the door and they were alone in her office. It was the same second he'd kissed her for the first time, pawing at her face like he'd never done this before, but kissing like he wrote the book on it. And he was a damn good writer. A man doesn't publish that many bestsellers without knowing what he's doing. She had to admit, he knew what he was doing.

She pressed the tip of her index finger to his collarbone and expertly pushed him away. She was so good at pushing people away. Men, mostly. She'd had a lifetime of experience in it. She put enough distance between them to see his face. His eyelids hung loosely for a lingering moment until he opened them while closing his lips. The first thing she said was, "You taste... sweet."

He smiled. He had an arrogant smile that would probably look wicked to anyone who didn't know him. It started with the bottom lip carefully tucking under a row of perfectly straight top teeth, then an upward tug at the right corner. "Why thank you, detective," he said, soft-spoken and slightly mumbling. "You're quite the taste of honey yourself." He dared to draw his nose toward her cheek again, but she pulled back with a passion that rivaled his.

"No, I mean you taste like..." She paused, realizing that she was having this conversation. Slightly embarrassed, she finished, "peaches."

"Peach vodka," he confirmed, almost proudly. "There's, uh... plenty more back at my place if you're into it," he murmured, his slick grin working its way through the stages again.

"Peach vodka?" she repeated. For a second, he thought he might have impressed her. That was, until she started laughing, beginning with a derisive snort.

"What's so funny?" he asked, sounding wounded.

"Not exactly a butch blend, is it?"

He paused, and then spoke like a five year old who was just told he couldn't have ice cream for breakfast. "It tingles my nose."

"Okay, Castle, what is this?" she asked, sounding tired. "What are you doing?"

"I... wanted to give you something," he said, his voice maturing back to his husky growl.

"What?" she asked, mildly impatient.

"What you've secretly wanted for weeks but haven't had the courage to ask for."

"And what's that?" she asked, her arms folding and her head pulling from one side to another, just once. He looked her up and down, winked, and grinned. "You?" She felt a laugh creep up her throat.

"Drunk me," he corrected. "So why don't we skip the chit chat and get right to the fun part?"

"You want me to take advantage of you?"

"That's what you want." He seemed to have convinced himself it was true.

"No," she corrected, "that's what you want me to want."

"What's the difference?" he asked, his grin broadening.

"The difference is," she said, grabbing him by the shoulders, turning him around, and pushing him towards the door, "what I want and what you think I want could not be more at odds."

"If you wanted to play rough," he said as she shoved him at the door, "you should have just said so."

"Get out of my office," she said. "Unless you want me to put in a call to the mayor tomorrow morning that his favorite golf buddy burst into my office late at night, three sheets to the wind, and disrupted my work."

"But... it's what you want," he said, sounding confused.

"I am not one of your characters, Castle," she said, her voice now dangerous and severe. He was always the author; he was always the one who wrote the characters, wrote their actions, their thoughts, their desires. He didn't know how to be anything other than the author. But he couldn't write her.

He fumbled behind his back for the doorknob and stumbled through the doorframe. If he were writing this scene, she would have called out his name. She would have apologized for snapping at him. She would have done _something_ to stop him.

But tonight, he wasn't the writer. Tonight, he was just a drunk man, taking a cab home alone, who tasted like peaches.


End file.
